


Stolen shirts

by GeekyTeaLover



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Cute, Drabble, Fluff, Idiots in Love, M/M, please just enjoy this fluffy nonsense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-13
Updated: 2018-10-13
Packaged: 2019-08-01 14:50:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16286621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GeekyTeaLover/pseuds/GeekyTeaLover
Summary: Why is it that Arthur's shirts always seem to disappear when he visits Francis?





	Stolen shirts

It’s an early Saturday morning, and Francis is sitting in the kitchen of his Parisian flat, sipping languidly from a cup of black coffee. Golden rays of sunlight are just starting to creep through the windows, and he can hear birds singing over the noise of the city. There’s only one thing missing that would make it a perfect morning, and a second later a noise in the hallway signals the arrival of his companion. Francis turns just in time to see Arthur step through the doorway, hair sticking up more than usual and more importantly, shirtless. Francis smirks into the rim of his cup.

“Bon matin.” he says innocently, admiring the way the light hits Arthur’s slightly toned chest.  
“It’s too early for French.” grumbles Arthur, making his way into the kitchen. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen my shirt, have you?” 

Francis pauses for a moment to admire the hickey on Arthur’s neck that is standing out quite beautifully on his pale skin.  
“Non, I’ve no idea.” he replies calmly, taking another leisurely sip of his coffee.  
Arthur sighs and sits down at the table across from him, dropping his tie onto the table.  
“I found this on top of your wardrobe, but I can’t find my bloody shirt anywhere.” His voice is a little lower than usual, like it always is when he’s just woken up. Francis gets up and walks around the table, bending down so he can tilt Arthur’s head up for a kiss.  
“You can borrow one of mine.” Francis murmurs. “You might even be fashionable for once, rosbif.” Arthur gives him a half-hearted glare and it’s that that completes Francis’ perfect morning.

In the end, Arthur does borrow one of Francis’ shirts, a ridiculous silk affair that is far too delicate to be practical. He wears it on the train home, and it’s far more comforting than it should be to be surrounded by the smell of Francis’ ridiculously expensive cologne. It’s so comforting, in fact, that instead of taking the shirt off as soon as he gets home, Arthur wears it for the rest of the day. But nobody needs to know that.

He takes the shirt back next time he visits Francis, which is sooner than he’s like to admit, but somehow his own goes missing again. Francis is very amused by his slightly frantic searching, but it’s no good- yet again, his shirt is nowhere to be seen. He declares that Francis’ flat is a black hole for shirts, and Francis laughs and lends him another, one that looks disgustingly pretentious. Arthur sleeps in Francis’ shirt this time, back in his own home, and curses himself in the morning for being so sentimental.

It’s after the third shirt goes missing that Arthur starts to get suspicious- Francis looks far too smug in the morning, even for someone who got laid the night before, and Arthur decides he’ll have to investigate the matter more closely. It’s a week later before he gets his chance- Francis has gone out for pastries, and he conducts a proper search of the flat in search of his missing clothes. It doesn’t take him long to find them- they’re tucked into one of Francis’ drawers where they couldn’t possibly have gotten by accident- and he takes them into the kitchen to wait for Francis to come back.

Francis walks cheerfully along the street, despite the early hour- he has warm pastries in the bag tucked under his arm, and a sleepy Englishman waiting for him at home. He shifts the pastries in his arm as he unlocks the door, imagining Arthur sitting at the table and nursing a cup of tea, sunlight falling across his bare, freckled shoulders. Francis feels a warmth in his chest, and he pushes open the door, eager observe the scene he is imagining. Only when he enters the kitchen, Arthur is seated at the table, a small pile of shirts in front of him. Francis inwardly sighs in disappointment, setting the bag of pastries down on his side of the table.  
“Oh, your clothes!” he says, feigning innocence. “Where did you find them?”  
Arthur glares at him, but Francis can tell he’s only pretending to be angry.  
“Don’t get cute with me, Bonnefoy.” Arthur replies. “Why on earth have you been hiding my shirts?”

Francis sighs dramatically, moving to perch himself on the edge of the table next to Arthur.  
“I see you have.. how you say.. caught me red handed.” he says, smiling at Arthur’s glowering face. “Well, there’s a few reasons. One, it means you spend a rather lovely period of time wandering around my flat shirtless every morning you visit.” Arthur rolls his eyes, but Francis continues. “Two, it means I get to see you wearing my clothes, which as I’ve mentioned before, makes you look fashionable for once.” 

“And thirdly…” Francis pauses, suddenly unsure. He’s been avoiding the most important reason, and he isn’t sure he’s ready to confess it yet. It would show Arthur the depth of his feeling and until now they’ve both been pretending that this thing they have was just casual, despite all the early morning kisses, lunch dates and peaceful evenings in each other’s company that proved otherwise. Arthur understands him too well not to know what this would mean, but one look at Arthur’s soft expression and familiar, snubbed nose is all it takes for Francis to throw caution to the winds.

“They’re comforting sometimes, when you are not here. It makes me miss you less, having a piece of you here.” Francis finishes, looking Arthur in the eyes.  
“You miss me?” Arthur says in a slightly hushed voice.  
“Toujours.” Francis murmurs, looking away for the first time. He stares at his hands, resisting the urge to fidget while he waits for Arthur’s response. A second later, the Englishman stands up and pulls him into warm embrace. Francis relaxes into it, turning his head to plant a gentle kiss on Arthur’s neck.  
“I miss you too.” says Arthur against Francis’ neck. Francis feels the other man’s lips curve into a smile. “But you notice I don’t steal all your shirts.”  
“Non?” says Francis, smiling as well. “Where’s that grey silk one I gave you last week?”  
There’s a pause, then Arthur huffs.  
“Dammit.” he says, and Francis just laughs and pulls him a little closer. It’s not the morning he imagined, but somehow it is much, much better.


End file.
